


Under Heel

by theyellowbeetle



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Boot Worship, Choking, M/M, Misogyny, Trampling, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:25:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2381600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyellowbeetle/pseuds/theyellowbeetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "If someone could write out that game over that end with Eddie trampling Waylon ..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Heel

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'ed repost from the Outlast kink meme [here](http://outlastkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/692.html?thread=18356#cmt18356). thanks to those who encouraged me along.

“When I was a boy my mother often said to me, get married son and see how happy you will be…”

Everything hurts. He hurts and it’s dark and all Waylon can hear is Gluskin calling out to him, cursing him, _singing_ to him. It had started back up again after Waylon had left the gym, and that damned voice was able to carry all the way through the block to find his ears as surely as the rest of Gluskin will.

“I have looked all over but no girlie could I find who seems to be just like the girl I have in mind.”

Gluskin continues to chase at a slow, leisurely pace while Waylon limps forward. The whole area is a maze, and all the twists and turns he makes through a couple rooms bring Waylon to a mockery of a wedding.

Waylon hesitates, taking in the scene of chairs lined up neatly into two rows with a white train running down the middle, all leading to a makeshift altar. It’s hardly as gruesome as the mock birth or the victims in the gym, but still, Waylon stands staring all the same down the aisle. The bride waiting is a corpse strung up in the dress and veil with their hand outstretched.

_He tried to make me his bride._

Something shiny is in the bride’s hand. Waylon’s focus settles on that and he struggles forward.

It’s a key. It’s got to be the key that leads out of the block. There’s nowhere else to go but through to the Male Ward and the key is _right there_. Waylon is so close – he takes the key from the corpse’s hand and turns to keep going.

“… Filthy slut!”

Gluskin stands at the opposite end of the aisle, body filling the whole of the doorway it seemed, face cast into shadow with the meager light behind him, looking all the more frightening.

Waylon swallows and shuffles as fast as he can toward what was probably an office, already squeezing along the bookshelf that obscures the entrance when Gluskin’s hands find his jumpsuit. He’s yanked roughly back into the room, injured leg jostling and dragging against wood.

He’s spun around and slammed against the bookshelf so fast that Waylon’s head spins. For all of Gluskin’s sauntering before, now that he’s got Waylon –

Waylon looks up at Gluskin’s face, unable to hold back the gasp and cry of fear as he’s lifted right off his feet. His perspective skews and Waylon’s looking down at Gluskin in shock, clutching at the single arm that holds him while tears leak out of his eyes.

“You could have been beautiful,” Gluskin says, giving Waylon one short, sharp shake. “ _We_ could have been beautiful."

The other hand reels back and Waylon reaches out unconsciously at the flash of a knife. The metal shines in the darkness and Waylon panics, twisting wildly in the other man’s grip as Gluskin tilts the knife in consideration.

It comes fast, but Waylon keeps struggling and the knife cuts deep into his side. Blood pours hot from the wound and Waylon moans in fear. His free hand clutches at Gluskin’s shoulder as Gluskin prepares to thrust forward, but all his twisting gets Waylon’s numb fingers to hook around and cradle Gluskin’s face.

“Sorry,” Waylon wheezes, vision swimming dangerously. _He’s going to stab me again. I’m going to die._

The hand around Waylon’s throat tightens, but the one holding the knife doesn’t come, and then Waylon is dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Waylon wheezes, throat feeling strange and wrecked while his lungs burn for each breath, hands covering the wound at his side.

“Darling, you run from me, you fight your punishment,” Gluskin says with a shake of his head. “And you’re _sorry_?”

A booted foot comes to roughly nudge Waylon on his back from where Waylon has curled in on himself. He doesn’t say anything and just cowers, but Gluskin is leaning in with all his weight and it’s too much. Waylon can’t breathe again and it feels like bones are shifting under Gluskin’s boot, ready to break. 

He has to wonder if Gluskin can feel the thundering of Waylon’s heart under the sole of the boot that’s crushing him.

“No,” Gluskin says, pausing – Waylon sees the hand with the blade shift and _oh god no_ , but Gluskin’s taking his boot off Waylon’s chest to bring it close to his face.

“No,” Gluskin repeats, “You’re not sorry. You’re just like all the other whores.”

Waylon flinches as the toe of Gluskin’s boot presses into one cheek, harder and harder until Waylon’s forced to turn his head, until his face is forced against the floor and his body is awkwardly curled again. The casual manipulation of his body under Gluskin’s foot is making Waylon think of too many other things – the easy way Gluskin dragged the locker with Waylon inside, drugging him unconscious with _tender consideration_ , every possessive touch while on the table – he’s at his lowest point under Gluskin –

“Please,” Waylon gasps, hands stuttering up the leg pinning him. He catches around Gluskin’s knee, fingers feeling along the fabric. “I’m sorry, please!”

“I don’t believe you,” Gluskin says, voice dark and dripping with his anger. “ _Why would you keep leaving me_?”

The pressure increases and so does the pain. Waylon is crying and there is snot all over his face, stuck between the sole of Gluskin’s boot that is tacky with blood and the grimy floor. He’s so sure this is how he’s going to die, collapsed – _crushed_ – completely.

“Do you want to die alone? Is that it?”

“No,” Waylon says, “No, no no…”

A large hand wrenches Waylon’s fingers free where they’re twisted in Gluskin’s pant leg. Waylon switches to that hand and holds onto Gluskin as tight as he can as he sucks in breaths. The boot slides, scraping across his nose and mouth until it plants on the floor next to Waylon’s face.

The reprieve has Waylon gasping and crying all the more. He doesn’t let go of Gluskin though, even if Waylon thinks he really should now, and it’s Gluskin that rips them apart. When Waylon looks up at the other man, the knife has disappeared, and it is just Gluskin towering above him with a dark, disapproving expression.

“Show me how sorry you are, _whore_ ,” Gluskin says.

Waylon doesn’t move for a long moment, unsure of what to do. He looks from Gluskin down to the boot, and trembling, leans to press his lips against the leather. Gluskin breathes in quickly but doesn’t react violently, and emboldened, Waylon opens his mouth to swipe his tongue once against the boot once before pursing his lips into a kiss.

“That’s it?” Gluskin asks accusingly. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

This is awful. Waylon nuzzles his face against the leather and when the boot tips up, Waylon leaves wet, open mouthed kisses where he can reach. He cringes against the taste of blood and dirt and who knows what else, his saliva streaking across the mess.

Gluskin seems to stand up straighter, body tense, as Waylon eases up cautiously. He’s making the fabric of Gluskin’s pant leg ride up, kissing from the toe of the boot up along the ankle, across laces to the top. Waylon stops by leaning his forehead against Gluskin’s shin, clothing falling back into place as Waylon cowers at his feet.

 _I am so fucking pathetic_. “I’m sorry,” Waylon says, “so sorry.”

There’s nowhere else to go. Waylon’s side burns and the jumpsuit sticks to the wound that still bleeds slowly. Talking hurts, breathing hurts. His leg is ruined. _I’m trapped here_. Waylon feels tears fresh and stinging down his face.

Gluskin moves, leg shifting, displacing Waylon slightly as he presses his foot down on Waylon’s groin. The boot turns hard and Waylon screams, throwing his arms around Gluskin’s leg to try to rise up from the pain.

“Oh darling,” Gluskin says, voice suddenly so much lighter than before, “I could still fix you. If you’re truly sorry.”


End file.
